


Our Own Heroes

by gravemaiden



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chronic Pain, Drug Use, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Necromancy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychosis, References to Depression, Romance, Schizophrenia, Self-Esteem Issues, Team Fluff, Various OCs - Freeform, they're all fucked up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:31:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23435566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravemaiden/pseuds/gravemaiden
Summary: We are our own dragons as well as our own heroes, and we have to rescue ourselves from ourselves.Tom Robbins, Still Life with WoodpeckerIn which a ragtag group of thieves, mages, and shameless flirts struggling with their own issues meets and begins (or at least tries) to heal.
Kudos: 1





	1. Intro: Voltaia Zoshroh

**Author's Note:**

> I simply want to live; to cause no evil to anyone but myself.
> 
> Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

For someone who has faced brigands and an entire cave of bloodthirsty trolls, Voltaia is surprised to find herself fearing a blank sheet of paper. 

The tip of her quill has remained at the top corner of her parchment for a few minutes now, a dark splotch of ink gathering where it brushes against the paper. She has been struggling to begin her letter for the longer half of thirty minutes now. The candle on her desk is already drooping. 

It’s not that she doesn’t know what to write about. In fact, Voltaia has _ many _things she could write about. The problem is the swelling in her chest, the shakiness in her hands that doesn’t seem to want to leave nowadays, and the fear of disappointing those in Blackrock. 

> _ Dear Eydissa, _
> 
> _ In accordance to your request, I have stopped taking the potions. I am sure you will be pleased to hear that I am no longer experiencing headaches or burnouts, however I am now constantly trapped between the desire to kill somebody and the desire to curl in a ball and weep. _

No.

> _ Dear Eydissa, _
> 
> _ Thank you for the warning. We will keep an eye out. I have taken your request into serious consideration and have begun cutting down on my doses. In the meanwhile, I have continued my studies, and I am sure you will be pleased to hear they are going very well. Gregi wishes for me to tell you that she misses you. _

No. 

> _ Dear Eydissa, _
> 
> _ Thank you for your suggestion and the warning. I will consider decreasing my dosage. In the meantime, I would like to inform you that I am considering leaving Blackrock. I feel as though the only thing stopping me from true independence is independence. If that makes any sense. _

Voltaia rips her letter apart for the fifth time and lets her pen clatter to the ground. Despite the miles between them, she can hear the disappointed sigh in Eydissa’s voice. Voltaia could remedy that with an extra few paragraphs about her newfound interest in restoring memories in subjects, or communicating with the dead via soul gems, but she doubts anything will interest the woman. 

She picks up the pen and taps it against a fresh piece of parchment. She hears loud voices, switching from laughter to pained shrieks, and something in her gut sours. Voltaia ignores the noise and begins writing again. 

> _ Eydissa, _
> 
> _ I have received your letter. Blackrock is doing well. _
> 
> _ We will keep an eye out for this mercenary. _
> 
> _ I am still alive. _
> 
> _ Sincerely, _
> 
> _ Voltaia. _

That will do. Eydissa will likely want to cross those miles between them and rectify that ‘alive,’ but that’s alright. Voltaia wishes she would. 


	2. Intro: Neyr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As lonely as the dead awake  
Or God among the dinosaurs
> 
> Glyn Maxwell, Museum

The weight of the bow and the sheath on her back is a familiar comfort. Unfortunately, the elk sniffing around in the grass is a wholly inadequate distraction. 

With her recent ventures along Riverwood, the murmurings are back. Neyr had almost been fortunate enough to not run into any guards, but the feeling of being watched had struck her suddenly in the middle of the Trader, and she’d smacked a plate of armor to the ground and threatened the man behind the counter. 

She’d been escorted out of the town, kicked in the small of her back and spat on by the guards. And since then, the voices have been deafening. 

_ She’s mad. Talking to herself, do you see that? _

_ Well, you know the rumors about the Bosmer in Valenwood. Do you think . . .  _

_ That it’s from cannibalism? I wouldn’t doubt it.  _

Neyr’s grip on the arrow relaxes as the elk shifts and flicks an ear. 

_ Neyr.  _ It’s her mother’s voice that calls to her, rattling with an unknown illness. She was sixteen when her darkness began. Just like Neyr. Her grip around the arrow tightens again, the string going taut.  _ Neyr, come here. _

The elk looks up, right as Neyr’s father demands she drop to her knees, and the arrow flies without warning. 

There’s a blur of movement before the arrow hits the tree with a metallic  _ thwang _ ! and sends pieces of bark flying through the clearing. There’s no sign of an elk, not even imprints in the dirt, and Neyr stands there wondering if it was even real, or yet another illusion the darkness has brought on her. 

The weight from her sheath is no longer comforting. Neyr picks her arrow out of the tree feeling sick, swaying along with the shadows and the rats that flicker in and out of reality at her feet. Neyr doesn’t kick at them anymore or scramble for a high place when she sees them. She’s learned to wait until they leave. 

Until then, she sits on a rock and wonders if she should end the darkness before it ends her. 


	3. Intro: Brannon Fenrifksen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your cause of sorrow  
Must not be measured by his worth, for then  
It hath no end
> 
> Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 8

The trip to Whiterun passes in a dizzying flurry of blinks and quakes and jerks, the days and nights blending together until the sunlight burns Brannon’s eyelids and every step feels like a thousand miles.

The doll in his pocket feels like a block of solid iron. It’s a silent accusation of Brannon’s failure. 

Markarth, for all the joy it once brought him, holds nothing for him now. Once he thought of Markarth and its streets, the smell of spices and iron, the Dwarven architecture curling along the mountains. But now he thinks of the wooden casket that consumed her, the silvery threads of her hair framing her face. And the dress. The lilac blue dress with the golden threads. He’d torn a piece off and tied it around his wrist, moments before the lid closed and his beautiful girl was put in the catacombs. 

The rage has been bubbling under his skin for some time now. First it was denial, a numb and cold kind of shock that left him breathless when he sat still for too long. And then the anger came, hot and fast and leaving him with a sea of Forsworn corpses at his feet as he slaughtered his way through the grief, seeing his daughter die over and over again. 

The anger surges through him with every expelled breath. The closer he gets to Whiterun the more the Forsworn’s armor begins to shape to the rough patchwork leather-and-iron of regular brigands and highway robbers. But to him it doesn’t matter. 

The grief became his master. He was at its mercy, its whims, its violent and turbulent sea that threatened to drown him each time he looked down at that strip of cloth. He gives in to the waves of wretchedness and focuses only on his sword, the bandits, and the coin. 

It was a shocking revelation, finding her in that state. He’d never have thought the Forsworn would target such a small, inconspicuous little farming outlet. But if anything, Brannon has learned one thing: In this world, it’s kill or be killed. So Brannon killed.

And killed.

And killed.


	4. Intro: Gaelira Grimrod

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak  
Whispers the o'erfraught heart and bids it break
> 
> Macbeth, Act 4, Scene 3

Covered in blood and sweat, Gaelira shuffles through a sea of corpses along with a few distraught survivors, trying to identify those she can. The fight was chaos, and she isn’t even sure if she could accurately call it a fight. It felt like slaughter. 

She presses a gauntleted hand to her forehead, trying to calm the swell of emotions pounding away at her skull. The Forsworn had taken the stronghold by surprise. Only a few had been armored and prepared for a fight. But even with the survivors, what does it matter? Their chieftain is dead. Their shrine is destroyed. And Gaelira can’t even see the bloodsoaked earth over the piles and piles of bodies. 

Lurkha stands beside her, his face twisted into an enraged type of calm. He suggests dousing the entire stronghold in gunpowder and setting it ablaze, using that as a pyre, the sea of bodies is so thick. At one point, Gaelira would have been revolted, would have demanded proper death rituals for each fallen warrior. And then she realizes it doesn’t matter anymore. 

She stands with Lurkha and the survivors outside the bolted gates, watching as what was once the largest orc stronghold in Skyrim goes up in flames. The wails around her sound like wolves. Her lips move unconsciously in the shape of a prayer, but no prayer has any meaning to her now. 

“I’m leaving,” she says, unable to turn away from her burning home. Lurkha doesn’t look surprised. Gaelira has considered leaving Udh Vabor, wishing to find something outside its walls. And now that it’s gone, it’s solidified. 

“Be safe,” is all he says, he too unable to look away from the pillar of smoke rising from Udh Vabor. 

The stench of burning flesh and hair and heavy woodsmoke sinks its claws into Gaelira and stays, filling her with dread and anger and hot grief as she walks through the forest alone, for the first time in her life. 

At noon a couple days later, she finds the first Forsworn outpost. 

She leaves it burning, covered in a new layer of blood and satisfaction. 


	5. Intro: Elide Malione

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revenge is ones  
Ability to make another  
Person feel your pain
> 
> James McLain, Revenge (A Haiku)

His body is gray now, to the point where his skin looks leathery, taut, like pastry pulled over apple slices. 

Elide sits quietly on the stool, watching his body, imagining the way he could open his eyes a hundred different ways. The transparent fabric against her skin makes her want to tear herself apart. The fruity scents in the room are beginning to make her head spin and her nose burn. How in Oblivion is she going to rectify this? 

The woman sits behind her on a shelf, swinging her leg back and forth, like she hasn’t walked in on a gruesome murder between a prostitute and her client. “He threatened you and you killed.” Her voice drips like warm honey. Elide blinks hot tears away and looks at the woman over her shoulder. 

“What?” her voice is hoarse. 

The woman - Astrid, as she had coyly introduced herself - grins under her hood. “A woman like you is a woman who should be feared.” 

Elide barks out a laugh, surprising herself. It rolls through her in jerking waves, and she finds herself unable to stop. The tears come again too, feeling as though they leave raw, open wounds in their trails. 

The tears show no sign of passing either, not even once her laughter finally chokes out. Elide wipes her eyes and leans back, poking the man’s body with a toe. “I suppose so.” She grins, unable to stop herself, unable to quell the giddiness blooming in her chest. Despite the horridness of the situation all around, she feels  _ proud _ . “You said your name is Astrid, yes? I’m Elide Malione.”

If Astrid is taken aback by Elide’s swift change in mood, or the tears still streaming down her powdered face, mixing with the kohl lining her violet eyes, she decides not to comment on it. Elide staggers to her feet, forcing the flashes of her nails scratching angry lines into the man’s chest down inside of her where she won’t have to remember it, and begins walking to the armoire. 

“Just give me a few minutes,” Elide says, waving her hand dismissively. 

Astrid seems pleased with Elide’s compliance, if not a bit perturbed by how quickly she changed moods. She must not realize that that’s all Elide has learned to do, if not as well as procure a long, long mental list of ways of pleasuring others. Every client is different, and she is subjected to their whims and demands, and if she doesn’t want a situation like this, she is to bite back her disgust and play her role. 

If Astrid is wanting her to kill, then Elide can imagine several beautiful ways she can put that talent to use. 


End file.
